


Me Before You

by fmt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animagus, Animal Transformation, Dorms, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, So is Harry but in a Different Way, Unpredictable Magic, draco is smart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmt/pseuds/fmt
Summary: It’s Eighth Year at Hogwarts, and Draco Malfoy is hiding something again. Harry is almost certain that it can’t be nefarious in nature, given the magical restrictions that have been placed on Malfoy’s wand, but this time he isn’t taking any chances.His own magic is currently…unpredictable at best, and stalking Draco Malfoy around the castle is just the dose of normalcy he needs.Stalking however, is surprisingly difficult to keep low key when you currently share a dorm with your stalkee. Is that a word?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	1. Form

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is one of my favorite tropes of all time. Harry stalks Draco and discovers something entirely unexpected. So sue me. If Cath can write a love story, so can I. Right?

The dog days of summer stretched by long and slow that year. Actually, all of summer had dragged on that year, but at least there had been a few things to do. There had been the trials first and foremost, where Lucius Malfoy had been sentenced to the Dementor’s Kiss, and Draco and Narcissa had received variations of house arrest, spell restriction, and probation. Potter had spoken at Draco’s trial, and Narcissa’s, but not Lucius’, his silence weighing heavy in the court of solemn-faced Wizengamot. 

His farewell to his father had been dry-eyed and painful. Lucius had looked almost remorseful as he told his son to take care of Narcissa, and to look after the family accounts. 

“The portraits will give you help should you need it”, he had said, mouth twisted in a half smile. “Our ancestors always were good with gold”. 

Draco had stretched out a hand then, to do what he wasn’t sure, as both his father’s own were linked behind his back. The guards had jerked him away then, and Lucius was led out of the chamber, presumably to his fate. 

They hadn’t seen him again. 

After the trials, cleaning up the Manor took a great deal of their time. There were burn marks on the parquet, and the curtains were scorched to hell. Very little of the Manor had escaped unscathed - his mother’s rose gardens, and the extensive wine cellars, which Draco took considerable pleasure in finding pristine. 

After discovering them untouched, he simply had to explore, and much of the next week was spent in quite a state, as he steadily worked his way from one vintage to the next. His mother had pursed her lips when she found him passed out on the stone steps that led up to the pantry, but she had levitated him to bed and tucked him, leaving a cool kiss on his cheek before she turned out the lights with a flick of her wand. 

The summer had slowed down a little after that. There was still work to be done on the house, but the kind that was best served by money, and by time. Draco and his mother took tea every day in the gardens, and Draco reveled in walking outdoors barefoot, digging his toes into the soil beneath the tea table. His father wouldn’t have approved, but his father wasn’t there anymore.

Draco browsed through the accounts he had found in his father’s desk, and found them far more interesting than anticipated. Loathe as he was to take his father’s advice, he had asked Lady Rosamund Malfoy for advice (seeing as how she was painted in her portrait amongst stacks of gold, he thought she might know a thing or two about it), and now spent several hours every day getting tutored in the ways of the market. 

Still, he was rather bored. And lonely. Blaise and Pansy had finally given in to years of suppressed attraction, and were rather preoccupied with each other. He had scarcely received a letter all summer from either of them - just a breezy, rose-scented scrawl from Pansy, and a slightly longer missive from Blaise, saying that they were at his mother’s Italian villa, and to come visit. Draco couldn’t, even if he had wanted to (Madame Zabini scared the pants off him), seeing as how he was confined to the house, but he appreciated the gesture all the same. 

Crabbe, of course. He tried not to think about Vince, but some days were harder than others .

And Goyle, who he had yet to hear from. This was somewhat to be expected - Greg had never been much of a letter writer, even in the best of times, and this was hardly the best of times. He supposed he would have to wait until September to find out where their friendship stood, for that had been another surprise. 

Professor McGonagall herself had shown up mid-July, eyeing the newly rebuilt rooms of the manor with ill-disguised distrust. Draco and Narcissa had received her in the Rose Conservatory, Draco’s favorite of the remodeled house. 

She had sipped her tea rather solemnly while explaining that even though the conditions of his sentence required his return to finish his education, Hogwarts would not tolerate any funny business.

Draco had nodded, a blush of shame staining his cheeks and throat, and walked her to the floo in silence. He had wanted to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, or to sneer haughtily like the old Draco would have, but the words wouldn’t come, and neither would the sneer. So instead he had watched her depart with head bowed. When the green flames of the floo had spun out, he kicked off the shoes he had donned for the visit, and headed back out to the gardens, where the warm afternoon sun made him feel alive again. 

Professor McGonagall had brought his wand back to him, no longer needed by Potter he supposed, now that Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. Draco didn’t care. He didn’t care about the restrictions that had been placed on the wand either, limiting it to only Hogwarts-taught spells either. The Hawthorn felt smooth under his fingers, worn in just the right places, and a few scratches that must have happened under Potter’s ownership of it. Somehow even that didn’t matter. None of them had made it out of the war unscathed, and if his wand had a few new scratches - well, so did he. 

Boredom drove him to the library at the end of July. 

He had to admit to never being the most assiduous of students before, coasting by on charm and bullying other students to do his work for him. He had always learned the spells that were required of him and nothing more, preferring to devote his free time to power games in the Slytherin Common Room, or tormenting Potter. Now though…  
He knew the Ministry would be keeping an eye on him, Professor McGonagall had said as much. One toe out of line, and it was likely he would be shipped back to the manor, with a retrial to boot. Still, she had said it herself, looking down her sharp nose at him. Being back at Hogwarts was likely to come with certain risks. Narcissa had reached out a hand to cover his own, briefly, cool fingers wrapping around his own. And if he defended himself, it was all too certain who would be found to blame. 

So to the library he went. The Manor’s library was less damaged than other rooms, the Death Eaters not having particularly cared for the pleasures of fine literature, and so had been largely left alone in their renovations, only the damaged curtains stripped away to let the light stream in, illuminating paths of dust. 

Draco had begun with the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 and worked his way up, paying particular attention to those spells that would allow some measures of defense with none the wiser. Imperturbable spells, reflective mirrors, illusory transfigurations. He worked steadily, breaking only for tea with his mother and lessons with Lady Rosamund. He was not foolish enough to assume that the students at Hogwarts would leave him alone simply because the Ministry had decided to, and fear was always rather motivating as he had discovered last year. 

He had just set aside his third year Defense textbook (much better than the hogwash from almost every other year), and was idly flipping through the other books open on the table. He had asked the library to provide every tome they thought might be of use, and the magic had responded, piling stacks on one of the wide walnut tables. As he did so, a thin pamphlet fell out of a book that he had been planning on ignoring, as it didn’t look like something he had ever used in one of his classes. 

Still, the magic knew to only give him Hogwarts level spell books, and it’s not as though something this size would take him long to read. 

The pamphlet was green with wiggly lines running across a satiny cover, and three words boldly stamped on the cover, Journey of Form. 

The inside cover held a rather lengthier subtitle. Draco read it, not quite believing his eyes. 

Journey of Form: How to Embark on that Wandering Path to Understake the Most Potent of Transfigurations and Achieve Animagus. 

He paused before turning the page. Could this really be Hogwarts level magic? He supposed so - he had never heard about anyone learning it, but actually hadn’t there been one seventh year Slytherin who had boasted about private tutoring with McGonagall years ago? He vividly remembered the time the Professor herself had transfigured, showing the class her cat form. Surely she wouldn’t have done so if it was forbidden? 

Draco sped through the first few pages, wide eyed as he tried to tamp down on the flutter of hope that had sprung up in his chest. Could the ministry track animagus transformations? He didn’t think so - he remembered his father telling him about Black’s animagus after spotting the man at King’s Cross the summer before Fifth Year. Lucius had been sneering that Black’s form would be something as pedestrian as a dog, but Draco had been silently impressed by his cousin, and had spent many a night that year dreaming about what his own form would be. Surely if an escaped criminal on the run had been able to transform without detection, he would be able to do so as well.

As Draco read on, his heart sped up in excitement. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t an incantation involved in the transformation. It only depended on force of will, and he could certainly muster that. If he could master his, and his form was something small enough - even a blasted ferret would do - perhaps he could make it through the year unscathed after all.


	2. Leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco realizes that focusing if far more difficult than he thought. Also, tea is had.

“You aren’t eating enough”, Narcissa chided him gently. 

Draco flexed his toes in the grass beneath his chair, and thought about the five lines of power from Journey of Form. The book, and its contents had quickly become something of an obsession. He had long since memorized almost every word, but still carried the booklet around, shrunken in his pocket in case he had to reference it quickly (he really wasn’t sure what occasion would warrant this, but it wasn’t as though anyone was around to judge him).

Tea time with his mother was rapidly turning into something like a chore. Every moment that he spent away from his task was time wasted, and that included time spent eating. Personal hygiene too was quickly falling by the wayside. He was lucky if he brushed his teeth, let alone showered or ran a comb through his hair, which now fell nearly to his shoulders. 

Chore it might be, but at least being forced into spending time with Narcissa gave him the chance to ask some probing questions. Journey of Form made it quite clear that while not always necessary, having some genetic predisposition to animagus transformation would certainly help. The text failed to mention how exactly to determine said disposition, particularly when half of your family were power-obsessed egomaniacs and the other half were delusional, blood-purist racists, and as a result the only semi-sane living member of your family was your own mother, who would almost certainly be far too interested in why you were trying to find out. 

He therefore breached the question carefully, not quite sure of how his mother would take it. She had always told him stories of her childhood when he was growing up, the antics of the beautiful Black sisters, and their cousins. Now though, so many things had changed. She was the only one remaining - well, her and Andromeda, but he certainly wasn’t going to bring her up. 

He moved a pale pink macaron to his plate, mainly to appease her, although he also admired the picture it made aesthetically, before plunging in.

“Mother”, he began, then stopped. 

“Yes dear?”. She was gracefully stirring a small lump of sugar into her tea, spoon never touching the outer rim. He ploughed on. 

“Did you ever hear anything about Sirius Black being an animagus?” 

“Sirius Black?”, she repeated. She had paused with her cup of tea halfway to her mouth, a quizzical look on her brow. 

He frowned. His mother was usually quite quick on the uptake. 

“Yes, Sirius. Your cousin?”. 

She raised a pale blonde eyebrow at him. 

“I’m well aware of who Sirius is, Draco. Just curious as to the question”. 

He waited. If he knew his mother, the bite in her voice indicated that she did indeed know something about it, and was weighing how much to tell him, if at all. 

He pressed on valiantly. All or nothing, wasn’t that his motto now?

“Well?”

She sighed, and set the teacup down on the wrought-iron table. 

“I heard rumors of it when I had already graduated from Hogwarts. Severus was always so insistent that him and the rest of those dreadful boys were up to something. I don’t know that I believed it at the time, but it certainly made sense - Blacks have always been rather gifted at the finer nuances of transfiguration, and Merlin knows that Sirius was bright enough, once he set his mind to something. I never knew for sure until Pettigrew joined the Dark Lord, and told…them”. 

Draco took “them” to mean his father. They never mentioned his name anymore if they could help it. 

“It rather took me by surprise, because it had always been something we laughed about as children. Dromeda, and Sirius and I. Sirius had found some old journal of Capricornus Black, and there always were rumors about Uncle Alphard as well. But we never took it seriously, it was just a game we played, running about the house, fighting over who was allowed to be what”. 

She stopped talking, a flush rising on her throat. Draco pushed the macaron around on his plate with a finger, trying not to meet her eyes. After several seconds had passed, she cleared her throat and raised the teacup back to her lips. 

“Why do you ask, dear?”

He had an answer prepared, but prayed silently she wouldn’t ask too many questions. 

“I was looking through my Transfiguration textbook for this year, and so it mentioned a couple of times. I remembered Dad saying something about Sirius, and I was just curious”.   
As he expected, the mention of his father seemed to dissuade her from probing any further. She looked at him a little suspiciously, but thankfully didn’t press the issue any further, just offered him another pastry. 

He demurred. 

They sat there a while longer, both lost deep in thought. 

*** 

Draco had been reassured to learn that the genetic predisposition was indeed there, just as he had guessed, and it being only a generation removed was a good sign already. That Sirius Black - who was surely a ne’er do well if he ever had heard of one - had managed to achieve this particular branch of magic assured him further. 

For it had turned out that the difficult part about becoming an animagus wasn’t the magic itself.   
That part was easy, far easier than he ever could have imagined. Without the magical strain of daily lessons, or the constant small spellwork he had become accustomed to casting on the regular just to make his life easier, he found that magic simply flowed out of him. He woke up in the morning to it crackling through his veins, dancing along his skin like some sort of freakish St. Elmo’s Fire. It was like he had come into some sort of delayed magical adolescence, only without his father or the Dark Lord around to witness it. 

Actually, now that he thought about it, he shuddered to think of what the Dark Lord would have made him do had he shown any signs of being more powerful. Being used as a punishment for his father had been humiliation enough, and he hadn’t even realized it at the time. 

The difficult part about becoming an animagus was in trying to focus that power, to send it down the five lines of power with equal precision and depth. 

Each line would represent a different Element of Self. Empathy, Honor, Intelligence, Love, and Spirit. He had read these assurances with quiet skepticism, quite certain that this was all a bunch of hogwash, and that no self-respecting wizard would ever be tapping into a pool of empathy or spirit just to become an animagus. 

Just to make sure though, Draco had tried out a few of the breathing and visualization techniques Journey of Form suggested to begin the process, and had been completely flabbergasted when the lines had almost immediately jumped into his mind, so clear it felt like he could reach out and touch them. He didn’t doubt Journey of Form after that, and indeed, that was when he had taken to carrying it around like an embarrassing toy doll. 

Journey of Form had said that as he got closer to the correct balance of focus, he would likely be able to visualize his form - see it as if at the end of a tunnel - and that from there on out, it would only be a matter of time before his physical body could make the transformation to its true self. 

So far all he had was a feeling of itchiness and discomfort, every time he attempted to send his magic down the five lines. 

At least the lines were getting clearer as he visualized them, and with this new connection to Sirius, his magic felt even more grounded. The thought of returning to Hogwarts without at least this small protection made him feel panicky and anxious, like his heart was rising up in his chest. 

He had less than a week left now before his return to Hogwarts, and he was fairly certain he had been dreaming in his Animagus form every night. Each morning he awoke feeling sore and run-out, yet happier than he could ever recall being in his life. He could have sworn that scents were sharper now, the air full of more variety. He had been waking up sniffing the air, sure that he could almost smell the sharp salt of the sea breeze all the way to the West. 

Packing for school was done in an idle haze over those last few days. He stood, one slippered foot tapping against the other, while his mother directed a bevy of elves to iron this or that, to shrink this set of books and to pack that hamper with extra care. 

He couldn’t remember ever being so nervous for a school year, not his first, when his mother had cried for days at the thought of sending him away, before composing herself to say goodbye at the Hogwarts Express. Or even Sixth Year, where he had gotten aboard with his arm still burning and his mother’s pleas to be careful ringing in his ears. 

This was different. He went to bed on the last night of August early, telling his mother he wanted a good night’s sleep to prepare for the day ahead. She nodded wanly, already slipping into the cool facade she would comport herself with tomorrow as she saw him off. He had thought about telling her not to come, that he would have Mippy apparate him to the station, but one look at her face, pale and determined, had dissuaded him of any such ideas. 

He didn’t sleep that night, imagining the grains of magic racing down each line of power one after another after another. 

He glimpsed his form, sometime just before dawn, the excitement of realization dulled by pure exhaustion. He fell asleep shortly after, with a hint of a smile on his face. He would be fine, after all.


	3. Nacht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to Hogwarts goes much as expected. For the most part anyway.

The goodbye was hard, but goodbyes always were, weren’t they? Draco snorted a little at his own cliche, even as he squeezed his mother a little tighter. Usually their hugs were brief, particularly in public, but this one had gone on for many seconds yet, and neither of them had moved to break away. Draco breathed in the scent of her floral perfume (the same for as long as he could remembered), and thought he felt a dampness on his shoulder, where his mother’s head was pressed against his robe. It was still odd to him that he was that much taller than her - Narcissa was not particularly short, and he himself had always been small-boned, but in the last year or so, he had managed to grow to nearly his father’s height. His mother finally pulled away, and he politely ignored the sparkle on her cheek that she dashed away with a trembling hand. 

She reached the same hand out to straighten his robes, before pulling away altogether and composing herself. He could almost see the Malfoy facade as it slipped over her features, tear-filled eyes becoming colder, more distant. 

“Take care of yourself”, she said. “This year will test us all, and you must rise above the rest. May Kirke guide your journey”. 

He was briefly startled enough to take a step back, searching her eyes for her meaning. Kirke, as far as he knew was a goddess of transformation, particularly animal transformations, and he had never known his mother to reference her before. He saw a glimmer of mirth in her eyes, and smiled inwardly. Clearly he had not been as subtle as he hoped with his questions, although it seemed as though Narcissa was giving him her acceptance. 

“Be well Mother”, he whispered. He dropped a kiss on her offered cheek, and turned towards the waiting Hogwarts Express. 

***

Draco somehow remained unnoticed on the train. He had found a compartment to himself, all the way at the front where usually only first years sat. Unable to arm the compartment against intruders like he normally would, he focused on a spell of intent that would politely encourage any passers-by to find somewhere else. 

The downside of this spell, as that none of his friends came to find him, and before long the Hogwarts was pulling away from the station, and quickly speeding away from the grey dullness of London into the countryside. Somehow he was too nervous to even think about visualization just then, but the elation he had come to last night still had not faded, and he basked in the feeling for many happy minutes. The sooner he actually achieved his form the better of course, but even so. He had achieved something in just four weeks that many wizards took a lifetime to accomplish, and most didn’t even attempt at all, so sure were they that the magic was beyond their reach. 

When he emerged from this happy daze, they were still several hours away from school, although it appeared they had at least passed the border into Scotland. 

Draco pulled out his account notebook for a while, and flipped idly through it. With the help of Lady Rosamund, he now understood every number before him, but something still nagged at him, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. The Malfoy coffers were dizzying in their wealth, even after the Ministry reparations had been taken, and it was all just sitting there. In land, bonds, businesses, all over the world. From safety deposit boxes in Switzerland to energy futures in the United States, Malfoy money was a major part of the world economy. It would be foolish to simply give it all away, as he had been tempted to do the first time he had truly started to think about his role in all of it, but that didn’t mean he had given up entirely on the idea. 

The journey came to an end as the sky through the windows darkened to dusk, sun sitting low on the horizon. Draco was already wearing his robes, but he couldn’t help but feel the absence of Prefect badge on his chest. He hadn’t expected one of course, given the unique circumstances of his return, but he did feel the loss of its weight nonetheless, that comforting reminder that he had been one of the favored. 

Now he would have to get by on other merits. 

Draco disembarked in darkness, falling behind a crowd of what could only be first years, small faces alight with nervousness and excitement. 

He looked around now for Blaise and Pansy and Greg, trying to avoid the gaze of everyone else as he did so. There were a few pointed fingers, and muffled whispers, and more than a few lingering stares, but these were easy enough to ignore. His friends were nowhere in sight, and he frowned again, trying to think if in any of Pansy’s inane scribbles she had mentioned flooing the castle, or perhaps apparating. That must be it. They are technically of age now, and even if he wasn’t able to get his license, seeing as how he was under house arrest all year, Pansy and Blaise and Greg must have all managed somehow. 

Draco turns away from the train, intending to make his way to the carriages, when he finds his way blocked by a large, looming figure. The whispering that Draco’s been tuning out intensifies, and he looks up to see Potter, standing in front of him with an odd expression on his face. Granger and the Weasel are nowhere to be seen, and Draco opens his mouth to taunt him, before remembering his mother’s parting warnings, and shutting it again without speaking. 

Potter spoke instead.   
“Your mother saved my life. So that’s why I testified. Just so you know. So thank you. To her”. 

Potter licked his lips and swallowed, lookin excruciatingly uncomfortable as he stood there. He had bulked up over the summer it seemed, and was still clad in muggle attire, muscles apparent even through the cotton of his sweater. 

Draco opened his mouth, but no words would come out. His mind was racing. Narcissa hadn’t told him that she had anything to do with Potter testifying, but it would certainly help to explain things. 

Potter started to turn away. Panicking, Draco thinks again about his mother’s face, in the moment just before she said goodbye and reaches out to tug on Potter’s sleeve. The whispering grows louder. Potter looks down at his sleeve, the fabric Draco has bunched in his fingers, without blinking. 

“Wait”, he says. His voice comes out in something embarrassingly akin to a whisper. “Thanks as well, for you know. The trial. And the Room of Requirement and all that”. 

He had practiced saying these words at least a dozen times, and he knew had written something like them in the letter he had sent that summer, but they weren’t coming out now the way he wanted them to. 

Something dark flashes through Potter’s eyes, and Draco drops his grip, unconsciously taking half a step back. 

He looks up again to find a hand dangling in front of him. (Potter’s hand, which is attached to the rest of Potter’s body, his brain dimly registers). 

“We might not ever be friends, but at the least we can be not-enemies”, Potter offers, a still unreadable-expression in his darkened eyes. “Yeah?” 

Draco takes it, forcing down the feelings of hope and subsequent hurt and shaken pride that a spurned handshake years before had caused, and shakes it firmly. 

“Not-enemies then. Indeed”. 

*** 

The ride back to the castle was an odd one. Having long overstayed the rest of the school on the platform, Draco is forced to take the last carriage out of Hogsmeade station with Potter, and Luna Lovegood of all people. They find her petting the mane of a thestral, unconcerned that all the other carriages have departed. She doesn’t seem to be surprised to find the two of them together, merely offering them a small smile, and saying, 

“I knew you would be coming. Isn’t it nice that he felt like waiting?”. Without waiting for a reply, Luna dropped a kiss on first Harry’s cheek, then Draco’s before climbing into the carriage. 

Draco was bemused but smiled inwardly. His cousin had always marched to the beat of her own drum. He took this to mean that that she had received the apology letter he had sent over the summer, and clambered into the carriage behind her. 

Potter stood by the side of the road, still looking confused. A light mist was setting in, and the glow of the lamplight from the station, Potter’s skin looked as if it was glowing from within. Draco held the door of the carriage open. 

“Coming, Potter?”. 

The thestrals neighed impatiently. Potter climbed in at last, and the door swung shut behind him. 

The rest of the carriage ride was in silence. 

***

The feast passes by in a haze of warmth and confusion. Blaise, Pansy, and Greg are still nowhere in sight, and the worry over his friends is enough to distract Draco entirely through most of the sorting. He sits at the fifth table along with the other Eight Years, feeling rather cramped and claustrophobic. The crash of applause when Professor McGonagall stood to make the customary start of term speech is deafening, and went on for several minutes, before she waved them all down with a weary smile. The usual warnings about the Forbidden Forest and banned products were given, and new staff members were introduced. The new potions professor was a thin, clever looking woman who couldn’t have been that much older than Draco himself, yet he found himself liking the look of her as she stood briefly to acknowledge McGonagall’s introduction. 

“You may have noticed”, says Professor McGonagall, nearing the end her speech, “That we have quite a few familiar faces back with us again”. 

“Hogwarts is delighted to welcome each and every one of her students to finish their education. Our Eighth Year students will have greater autonomy over their studies and selves, but are not permitted to participate in quidditch or other intra-school competitions. Please treat them as you would any other student”. 

Her gaze lingered on Draco for just a moment before turning back to face the Great Hall. With outstretched hands, she looked briefly in expression like Professor Dumbledore, eyes twinkling merrily. 

“And now, we feast!”. 

***

Draco followed the other Eighth Years up the stone staircase that led to the West Tower. He had never really explored this part of the castle much before, seeing as how it had mostly contained faculty housing. Now though, he looked along with interest, as they followed the glowing purple pathway McGonagall had told them would lead to their new quarters. 

They reached the portrait - a beautiful young maiden, dressed in sunny yellow robes - and Susan Bones gave the password, standing at the front of the small group with total confidence. 

The portrait swung open at her word, and the Eighth Years pressed inside. 

A brightly lit, not unlike the Divination room in decoration was before them. Clusters of large poufs and pillows were scattered, and one large couch dominated the center of the room. A large poster was tacked up by the small staircase that Draco assumes leads to their rooms. 

Most of the students are now clustered around this paper, talking excitedly in little groups of twos and threes at their room assignments. 

Draco draws nearer with some trepidation. He has to scan the whole paper before finding his name, all the way at the bottom of the page. 

Malfoy, D. is listed there, alongside Potter, H. and Longbottom, N. 

West Tower, Room 13 is written next to all three names in the same neat curlicue script.

Draco’s heart dropped into his stomach. There was no way. He was halfway to leaving the common room and marching straight to Professor McGonagall before he stops and thinks for a moment. The professor is unlikely to react well to him complaining on his very first night back, and surely she must have had a reason for making an otherwise asinine decision. Perhaps she thinks that this will be enough to protect him from the worst of the vitriol, although looking around their new common room, at unhappy faces and furrowed brows, he doubts this will be the case. 

Ignoring this, Draco pushes past the rest of the Eighth Years and heads for the staircase. 

His new room is small. Three four-poster beds, with the same purple and grey pattern to the bed hangings that was now on the Eighth Year ties. 

He can feel Potter and Longbottom making a concerted effort to be quiet - soft murmurs as they unpacked and the occasional snort of laughter that was quickly stifled. They at least, have accepted their sleeping arrangement with good humor, Potter shrugging off Longbottom’s whispered concern. 

He gets undressed that night in the safety of the bathroom. It seems like a small luxury to share a bathroom with only two other people, rather than the usual five, but as he looks at himself in the mirror, dark mark standing out in stark contrast to his pale skin. Scars from Potter’s curse cover his chest, too regular in size and shape to be anything but deliberate. Draco briefly bares his teeth at the marks - raised, pink, and shiny with scar tissue - that even Snape had been unable to erase, before getting on the rest of his evening ablutions. 

When he exits the bathroom a short while later, the room is eerily silent, as if its occupants had stopped talking just a moment before. 

Draco forced himself to walk normally to his bed, and drop his robes in the hamper. Longbottom was already in pajamas sitting on his bed. Potter was changing into his own pajamas, Gryffindor colors and slightly too small. 

He tore his eyes away, and clambered into his own bed, suddenly feeling desperately lonely, and wondering again the whereabouts of his fellow snakes. 

The lights flickered out, and the small room was cast into darkness. 

Draco fell asleep feeling itchy and restless, with the sound of Longbottom’s snores audible from behind his thick curtains, and lines of power criss-crossing behind his closed eyes.


End file.
